


The Lights That Guide You

by Marine_is_Hope



Category: Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: All the Faeries, Faeries - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, I love these three so much, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Triad, Polyamory, Threesome - M/M/M, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marine_is_Hope/pseuds/Marine_is_Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the eve of a new beginning. Or perhaps it is the last moments before an end. Mark isn’t sure. All that he knows is that he wants is something to remember them by. If only Kieran weren’t being so stubborn.</p>
<p>For andrew-blckthorn on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lights That Guide You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Razzaroo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/gifts).



The night sky was pitch black and clouded. Gwyn looked on as the young form of Julian Blackthorn stumbled into the relative safety of the glen. He watched as the boy tripped over the mossy rocks and brushed past branches and ferns. Eventually, Julian trekked over to a small creek-bed, and stopped short. Gwyn called upon a gust of wind; feeling a distant sense of pleasure as he watched a shiver ran up the teen’s spine. Carefully, Gwyn dropped himself down to the ground, taking care to make just enough noise to alert the Shadowhunter of his presence. It was, apparently, not enough of a warning, however, as Julian spun on his heels at the sound. Gwyn caught his wrist with ease, turning it sharply to the right, forcing him to drop his already drawn blade.

“Not the best way to try to promote peaceful negotiations, boy.” Gywn’s blue and black eyes stared down at the youth from beneath dark war paint. Julian took a step back, clearly hesitating for a moment before forcing himself to look down at the ground. 

“Gwyn ap Nudd.”

“Little Blackthorn.” 

“I want—”

“I know why you called upon me. I do, in fact, keep regular contact with the Courts.” There was a shift in the shadows and Gwyn let his mask of apathy slip away. He watched on in almost cruel amusement as Julian Blackthorn swallowed. He watched as his blackened face darkened in the impromptu mirror of the boy’s eyes. “I don’t appreciate people attempting to steal my Hunters from me.” 

Julian squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height. Gwyn had to give him credit for bravery. “I just want my bother back.” He was attempting for sternness, Gwyn could tell, but was too afraid to come across as such. 

“And I can understand the sentiment. Perhaps I would have even been sympathetic had you come to me and pleaded for his release, rather than foolishly going to that Seelie Queen.” Gwyn let a silence fall over the clearing, a moment of deliberate contemplation to watch Julian’s features cloud in a mixture of hope and trepidation, “Do your superiors even know that you are trying to orchestrate my March’s release?” At the Blackthorn’s silence, he let out a barking laugh, “Of course they don’t.” 

“I’m here now.” 

“Only after I refused the Queen’s request to return him.” 

Julian huffed a sigh and swallowed thickly. “There are Fair Folk dying, I’m offering you a means to investigate that.”Gywn could tell that he was reciting that phrase from memory. It was probably the same speech that he had given the New York Queen. A compelling argument. 

“They are not my people.” 

“They are people regardless. Ones that some of your hunters probably knew, that a few might still love.” 

Gwyn looked down at him, shifting to take a step back. “Walk with me.” He said, inclining his head down a path in the trees that he had just conjured. He watched as Julian stopped short, confusion etched upon his brow. Then he fell into step behind Gwyn. The world seemed quiet for a minute and even the few stars not obscured by the clouded sky seemed to shiver in trepidation for what was just on the edge of the horizon. 

“Let us just pretend that I agreed to accept the New York Queen’s demands, what then? There will be war.” 

“She promised—”

Gwyn arched an eyebrow, “If you actually believe a single word she utters, you are a naïve child. She hates your kind, even more so since the Cold Peace. She will find a means to go to war, and she will attempt to drag all of The Land Under the Hill down with her.” Julian looked up at the man, watching the moonlight cast light against the other’s tired and drawn features. 

“You are worried.” 

“I am a King and the leader to one of the few neutral parties in a land that is teetering on the brink of war. Yes, I am worried.” 

“Then help me!” Julian said, clinching his hands into fists, “Let’s just say that the Seelie Queen keeps her word and my family and I manage to find the killer! There will be no war! And if she doesn’t and there is fighting, then at least my brother will be with his family.” 

Gwyn was quiet. He thought of the way that Mark looked in the gray light of morning, still asleep and curled around both himself and Kieran. He thought about how Mark looked in his cloak. Mark was not the same teen who entered the Hunt. He sighed, “You act as though March wishes to go back.” 

Julian Blackthorn looked crushed at that statement. He finally looked his age, “You mean he doesn’t?” 

“He has changed. Perhaps for the better, perhaps for the worse. He speaks of you fondly, but he is no longer the type to sit back and let the prejudices of the majority of your people stir and fester. His tongue is as sharp as his bow.” Amusement coursed through Gwyn’s body, warming him. He could sense Julian’s confusion and slight disapproval. In a way, Gwyn understood. According to Kieran (How the hell was he supposed to tell him of this? How was he going to tell Mark?), the lighter emotion made him look younger and far more mischievous. Such a thing would set any Shadowhunter on edge. Sighing, Gwyn turned away to look out over the misted and dark hills. “Fine,” He whispered, his voice resigned and tightly controlled, “I will return Mark Blackthorn to you. But by the end of the three weeks, he gets to choose who he stays with or returns to.”

“It’s a deal.” The small Blackthorn said, offering out his hand. Gwyn stared down at the outstretched palm as though it were a snake, coiled to strike. There was a tense moment before Gwyn accepted the offer, albeit with glinting eyes and grin that he knew would send shivers running down the youth’s spine. 

As Julian pulled away and turned to leave, Gwyn shifted his hand down to tighten at the boy’s pale wrist, “You are but a child, Julian Blackthorn. You are one boy trying to go up against forces that have been building since the beginning of time. Watch where you step. Watch who you trust.” With that, Gwyn let go. 

Drawing his fingers up to his lips, Gwyn let out a shrill whistle that was carried by the wind. Within a minute’s time his horse galloped down from the clouded sky. As Gwyn was mounting, he stopped short and leveled the child with a glare, “Never attempt to meddle in my affairs again, Little Blackthorn.” Then, he stopped short, “Also, if I hear that my March has been harmed in any way by any of your Nephilim compatriots then the Seelie Court and its hatred will be the last of your worries.” 

\-------------------------------  
The fields of Annwn were quiet. The sun had just set, spilling out the last few red rays of light out over the countryside and untouched forests. A silence had overtaken Gwyn’s kingdom as the birds of day went to roost and the birds of night had yet to awaken. It would have been peaceful, if not for the looming storm clouds that were gathering on the small strip of western beaches that had been gifted to Mark Blackthorn to mold and shape into his own domain. It would have been silent if not for the screaming. 

“It’s bad enough that you used me as a bargaining chip without even telling me!” The few fae who were brave enough to eves-drop on the argument had rarely seen Mark so angry. Those who had been around when he was gifted to the Wild Hunt knew that he had raged and snarled like a chained wolf for those first few months. But then he had found peace, both with his place in the Hunt and in the arms of Gwyn and Kieran. The two of whom he was currently screaming at. “Now you’re saying that I can’t even bring anything with me! What’s next?!” 

Gwyn was silent and still where he leaned against one of the boulders on the drier side of the shore. He figured that the best course of action would be to stay quiet and let Mark burn himself out. Kieran, however, couldn’t seem to stop talking, “When your brother comes for you tomorrow, he will bring Shadowhunter gear for you—”

“I don’t give a damn about clothes, Kieran!” There was venom in Mark’s tone and thunder rolled ominously in the distance. Gwyn wouldn’t allow for Kieran to be threatened. The Unseelie Prince had no hand in the negotiations. Even Mark knew that. At the sound, Mark’s glare leveled itself with Gwyn’s gaze. Kieran scowled while his cheeks reddened at the thought that Gwyn believed he couldn’t fight his own battles. Mark then continued, “I’m talking about my bows, knives, and hounds! The things that I’ve been using for countless months! It has been years since I last held a Seraph Blade in my grip; it’d be about as useful as a longbow in Kieran’s hands!” 

It was a testament to the severity of the situation that Kieran didn’t take offense to that statement. Instead, the prince opted to stay silent, a look of barely restrained fury etched across his features. “Those are the marks of a Huntsman,” Gwyn finally spoke, his voice soft but final, “Not a Shadowhunter.” 

“I am a Huntsman! One look at my eyes and anyone can see that!” There was an odd sense of pride in Mark’s voice; it was a far cry from the way that his tone had been laced with anger, fear, and bitterness when he first joined the Hunt. That realization made Gwyn’s heart hurt. 

“And they will distrust you enough already because of them!” Kieran’s voice rose to match Mark’s in volume, the residual embarrassment of Gwyn’s interjection sharpening agitation and worry into actual anger. “You are being sent into a nest full of vipers and—”

“All the more reason for me to take my damn bow! If I’m going to be seen as an outcast either way, I might as well be an armed one!” 

“Not unless you want to go from being viewed as a pariah to being taken as threat!” Kieran shouted and his fingers had clinched into fists. His eyes were glinting and Gwyn knew then that Mark had hit a nerve. “You cannot fight the entire Clave, Merch! The moment that you paint a target on your back, they—” He stopped short, anger fizzling out, leaving behind only ashes of exhaustion and fear, “They will kill you. They will kill you and we won’t even know. And even if we did—” They wouldn’t be able to do anything. For the Wild Hunt was neutral, and would always be so. 

A quiet fell over the beach, broken only be the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the sand and stone. It was the eye in the proverbial storm, and they all knew it. Each of them was dreading being the one who began the second half. But the silence was getting too oppressive. 

Mark was the one who snapped under the tension first, “I just want something to remember you by.” He whispered, and his voice was desolate. “Anything.” 

“Then name more of your stars after us.” Kieran’s voice was hard and final and Mark took a staggering step back, as if the other man had just slapped him. The fury that had been so evident not two seconds ago darkened to a look of pained despair. Mark pressed his trembling lips together, opening them once, as if readying to speak, only to immediately shut them with enough force to make his teeth click together. Something shuttered close in his eyes.

Then, with a snarl, he grabbed Gwyn’s cloak from where it was lying in the sand and snatched up Kieran’s daggers from where they rested against a rock. Then, without a look back or a single word, he stormed away into one of the nearby woods. 

Then it was only Kieran and Gwyn sitting upon Mark’s forlorn beach. Net lightening lit the sky and rain drizzled down to prickle against Kieran’s bare shoulders. The Unseelie heir refused to look up, but he watched as Gwyn’s feet neared him. He could almost feel the other’s anger. Hypocrite. 

“By the damned heavens, Kieran—”

“Don’t even start.” The words were as sharp as steel, “You are the reason we are in this mess.” 

“What you just said—”

“Better he hate us and have something in common with them!” Kieran was trembling, though whether in sadness, or barely checked anger, Gwyn wasn’t sure which. At that point, Gwyn couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“And when he tries to run from the Clave, where will he go?! To the Hunt that he now hates and the lovers who refused him?!” 

“What would you have had me say, Gwyn ap Nudd?” A volley of lightening lit the sky, cresting over the black sea. This time it was not Gwyn’s doing. Kieran’s silver eye shined in the purple flash. 

“Not bloody that!” The waves slammed against the shore and the wind howled, “He’s leaving us in the morning, Kieran—”

“He’s supposed to stay!” The words ripped themselves from Kieran’s throat, and Gwyn stopped short, staring at the other as he all-but howled the next words over the on-coming gale. He had been foolish enough to assume that the argument they had had a week ago had laid this issue to rest. Though, in his defense, Kieran hadn’t exiled himself from Gwyn’s bed, the way he normally did when he and Gwyn fought. Though, Gwyn supposed hopelessly, that must have simply been because Mark had interrupted the conflict by coming back from a hunt, and Kieran’s desire to hold him had overpowered his stubborn fury. “You aren’t supposed to be able to leave the Hunt! The Hunt isn’t supposed to meddle in foreign affairs of the Courts! We are supposed to ride the skies and ferry the souls of the fallen for all eternity! We were supposed to have forever!” 

Gwyn felt his shoulders fall and he took a step closer to the other. Kieran’s chest was heaving and there was a slight shudder in his breath as it hitched with every exhale. There were times when Gwyn forgot that Kieran had his mother’s Seelie blood running through his veins, and her Seelie values clutching at his heart. When Gwyn forgot just how deeply and how possessively Kieran took to love. For a moment, neither of them could speak. Kieran’s trembling grew more noticeable with every breath he took until he finally gave in, curling in upon himself as the sobs coursed through his frame. That was enough to make Gwyn break free of his trance and come forward to wrap his arms around the other. Kieran’s grip was white-knuckled and he buried his face into Gwyn’s already damp tunic. They stood together, intertwined around each other, cold, wet, and miserable. “Call it off. Please.” Kieran whispered, and those words were desperate. “Do something. Anything. Just… please…”

“I gave my word to his brother, Kieran. I cannot go against it.” There was a sigh, “Besides, The Land Under the Hill must find peace, and quickly. This is the only option that I can see. Show me another road and I will take it immediately.” Gwyn said, brushing away one of Kieran’s stray curls. “And perhaps he will return to us after the three weeks’ time.”

“He loves his family, Gwyn. And they, him,” It was surprising that Kieran added that last line. His distrust and distaste of Shadowhunters was known to nearly every Hunter that rode with him. “He will stay to protect them, even if—” He trailed off, his eyes glazing over in what Gwyn knew to be sadness and fright. He knew without asking that Kieran was remembering stumbling across his mother’s corpse, bloodstained, with her dress billowing in the waves. Murdered by Shadowhunters and their swords of metal and stone. 

“If he dies, Gwyn, if those Shadowhunters kill him,” There was something frozen in Kieran’s voice that reminded Gwyn far too much of the other faery’s Unseelie father, “I will leave this Hunt with its beasts and spirits, and will start stalking the lives of those whose souls are stained with his blood.” 

“And do you think that you can kill the entire Clave, Kieran?” 

There was a bleak chuckle, “Perhaps not, but I will end as many lives as those Seelie fools did when they blindly followed the directions of that Queen before I allow for a Shadowhunter blade to cut me down. That I promise you.” 

Gwyn could not think of anything to say to that. 

\-------------------------------  
The moon hung high in the sky when Gwyn was awakened to the creak of his bedchamber doors opening. Rain still pattered against the windows and thunder occasionally caused Kieran to huff in his sleep and squirm closer to Gwyn’s warmth. Bare feet padded against the stone tile, too quiet for a human, or even Shadowhunter’s, ears to pick up. But that, combined with the softly labored breathing was enough to make Gwyn roll over to face the entryway to his bedroom to where Mark stood not ten paces away. His blonde curls were darkened and laden down with water and there was a puddle forming beneath his feet from where Gwyn’s cloak was dripping onto the floor. 

Gwyn sighed, rising into a sitting position. Carefully, he dragged his pillow down to take his place so as to not wake Kieran before turning his attention back to the blonde, who had yet to move. He grabbed one of the quilts that rested at the bottom of the bed and slung it over his shoulder before rising to his feet. 

Mark said nothing and stayed still as Gwyn carefully undid the broach of the cloak, letting it tumble to the floor with a damp ‘thump’. With gentle fingers, Gwyn unhooked the fastenings of the belt that Kieran’s daggers. He took note that Mark had set his bow and quiver up against the doorframe, as the blonde did every night he decided to share the King of Annwn’s bed (which was most nights they weren’t riding). He draped the blanket around Mark’s shoulders with an almost cautious precision. He took a step back, waiting until Mark took a shaky step forward to touch the other again. The skin of the other’s cheek was freezing beneath the pad of Gwyn’s thumb. Gwyn let out a soft tsk before slowly sliding both his hands up to cradle the blonde’s face. Mark’s eyes remained fixated on the bed. Gwyn didn’t even have to follow his gaze to know that he was staring at where Kieran’s dark form was slumbering fitfully. 

“Do you wish to stay here?” Gwyn asked, only realizing the double meaning of the question after it left his lips. 

Mark swallowed, tearing his eyes away from Kieran, “Not yet.” He responded after what sounded like an eternity of silence. His voice was rough, the way that it usually was after a long Hunt. It was as though he had spent the majority of the night screaming into the wind, which, Gwyn pondered, was entirely possible.

Nodding, he moved, letting the other lead them back down the hallway in the direction he had come. He was only slightly surprised when Mark stopped, twenty steps away from the suite’s entrance. Gwyn supposed it made sense. Hunters protected other hunters, even if they were arguing. Especially if they were lovers. 

With a flick of Gwyn’s hand, the wall of the castle rearranged itself, brick restacking and repairing itself as a glass pane hardened into existence to provide a sweeping view of the sleeping kingdom. Mark hesitated for a moment before taking a seat on the recently created ledge. Gwyn waited until he had settled before joining him, skillfully crossing his legs so that, despite his long limbs, only one of his ankles was brushing against the calloused skin of Mark’s foot. Mark frowned, and, seemingly without much thought, spun himself around, scooted back, and leaned back until the back of his head rested against the bare skin of Gwyn’s chest. Gwyn wrapped a loose arm around the younger man’s stomach and buried his face into the crevice of his neck, inhaling the scent of rainwater and night. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Mark whispered, tilting his head ever so slightly to give Gwyn more space. Gwyn hummed, pressing a kiss into Mark’s curls. “Do you ever just take to redesigning this whole place?” 

The question caught Gwyn off guard and he let out a breathy chuckle, “Did you get lost again, March?” Pulling away slightly, he smiled as Mark turned to face him.

“Surprisingly no, even with the extra hallway.” Something almost akin to humor lit itself in the backs of Mark’s mismatched eyes and Gwyn was struck by just how much he had missed that playful glint, “Which I am nearly certain wasn’t there three days ago.” 

“That is only because you were more focused on the way that Kieran had you pressed up against a wall and had a hand down your trousers.”

Gwyn had expected a laugh. Instead, Mark’s features darkened ever so slightly at the mention of the Unseelie Prince. Gwyn felt the playful mood die. Gwyn reached out, brushing his thumb against Mark’s knuckles, “He knows the pains and fears that can come from being distrusted by everyone around you. Do not forget that he spent most of his childhood in jockeying between his parents’ Seelie and Unseelie Courts. He also knows the dangers of Shadowhunters more than most of the other Hunters.”

“It didn’t give him a right to say what he did.” 

“No,” Gwyn sighed, remembering how Kieran had trembled in his arms, “It did not. But he is terrified for you, and people tend to say terrible things that they do not mean when they are scared.”

“I still wish you, either of you, would give me some sort of favor.” 

“March—” Gwyn sighed, tightening his hold on the other. 

“I-I can barely remember my siblings,” Mark said, and there was still a note of trepidation when he whispered those words. Gwyn knew why. The first few weeks after joining the Hunt, before Mark had managed to crawl his way into Gwyn’s inner circle, he had been taken in by one of the scout groups who had treated his harshly due to his Shadowhunter nature, compounding upon fear of punishment that the Seelie Court had installed. He had faced anger and punishment whenever he had even mentioned the family that he had left behind. Gwyn had let Kieran take care of that group. Needless to say, that most of them were dead now. Those that weren’t wished they were. Mark forced himself to continue on, “At times, it’s like I’m squinting through a pane of frosted glass when I try to picture them. There’s just a hazy outline splashed through with colors; nothing but a general shape. I mean, there are certain features, Helen’s hair, Ty’s eyes, Jules’s hands… but those are just bits and pieces. I don’t want for you two to turn into that jigsaw puzzle of mismatched shards. I want to remember you, both of you, until the day that I die.” He stopped for a moment, collecting himself. “It doesn’t have to be large. It doesn’t have to be a weapon, or a cloak, but—” At the soft and sad look in Gwyn’s eyes, Mark cut himself short, leaning to rest his head against Gwyn’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. “By the Angel, I’ll miss you.” 

\-------------------------------  
Gwyn was awakened by the cooing of a wren as it fluttered through the gray sky of morning. He wasn’t the only one. Mark, who had somehow, during the middle of the night, managed to switch places with Gwyn and bury himself in the crevice between Gwyn and Kieran’s bodies, startled at the noise. His sleepy teal and golden gaze met Gwyn’s as Kieran’s hold on Mark’s waist shifted. Gwyn shook his head and ran his right thumb over the counter of Mark’s right cheekbone. “’Time is it?” Mark whispered. 

“Not yet dawn,” Gwyn muttered, “Return to dreaming, my March, your time has yet to come.” Blinking blearily, Mark rolled in Kieran’s grasp and buried his face in Kieran’s neck. Apparently, in sleep, past arguments held no value to the Blackthorn. Gwyn had to smile as he leaned over to place kisses on both of his hunters’ temples before rising. 

Another hour passed as Gwyn changed and went through the affairs of his kingdom before the orange light of dawn crested through the skies. Running a hand through his hair, the leader of the Wild Hunt made his way back to his chambers to find the two in the same position as he had left them. Sighing, Gwyn made his way to Mark’s side of the bed, rousing the other. As Mark attempted to sit up, Kieran awoke.

“No, don’t go.” Kieran mumbled, his lips brushing against Mark’s shoulder. 

“Kieran--” 

“’Tis only a nightingale, there is still time.” The Unseelie Prince’s voice was forlorn and his eyes were pleading with Gwyn’s from over the top of Mark’s head. Gwyn shook his head and Kieran shut his eyes, his grip on Mark tightening. 

“It is time for goodbyes, Kieran.” Gwyn said, knowing that if he raised his voice to anything above a whisper it would be rough with emotion. He placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder, telling him to rise, and was surprised when Kieran let the blond slip from his grip, “Unless you wish to be the one leading our Mark to back to his human home.” Perhaps that last statement was a tad cruel, for Gwyn knew Kieran to be a very private person when it came to his emotions, and who was more likely to die for a Shadowhunter than let one see him at his weakest. Kieran’s eyes flashed in a stubborn manner. Shaking his head, he got up as well. It wasn’t until Mark had dressed in a simple tunic and trousers before the Unseelie heir spoke up again. 

“I am sorry, March,” His voice was shaky; “I love you.” 

Mark swallowed, “Tá grá agam duit.” He responded, in what was probably the only phrase that he knew in Gaelic. I love you. 

Kieran offered him a watery smile, “Your accent is atrocious.” He choked out, “Keep practicing.” 

“For you, Kieran, anything.” 

There was another glint of resignation mixing with the heartbreak now. With a sigh, Kieran made his decision. “Let me get myself ready.” He whispered. With those words and what Gwyn knew would be their final kiss, Mark left the room. 

Kieran turned to gaze up at his older lover, “You did that on purpose didn’t you?” 

“Kieran—”

Kieran shook his head, “Don’t. I understand why you did. My face is not known in the mortal realm. Not like yours. It will be safer. Who was going to accompany you?”

“Iarlath.” Kieran made a face at the name but remained quiet. Silence filled the room. 

Gwyn readied to follow after Mark when Kieran called him back. The young fae was holding something small and shining in the outstretched palm of his left hand. Taking a step closer, Gwyn realized it to be one of the quartz arrow-heads that he used for his longbow, wrapped in silver and attached tightly to a chain. “Kieran?” He whispered, slowly taking the offered necklace. 

“For March.” The Prince whispered. “If I am to go with him this last time, it is only proper that you give it to him.”

“One of my arrows?” Gwyn asked. 

“It is small. Something that can be hidden away.” 

Gwyn blinked, “You were listening to our conversation last night. 

Kieran nodded and took a step forward, and brushed his fingers against the stone, the whisper of “Rogha,” passing through his lips like a breeze. The wire began to shine as brightly as the stars that glinted in the night sky. Gwyn knew what that word meant. Chosen. Kieran shuddered, moving away as that the pendant dimmed, “For if he ever finds himself lost and wishing to return. A star to guide him home. Give it to him,” He whispered, and the words were a plea, “while I don my armor.” 

\-------------------------------  
Gwyn waited until they were in the throne room to draw Mark into the shadows of one of the pillars and press the necklace into the youth’s fingers. His watched as confusion passed over Mark’s face, followed by shocked comprehension. 

“What?” Mark asked, his voice cracking. Gwyn moved to cradle the man’s hands in his own. 

“It isn’t a cloak or a bow, but it is something small that you can hide out of sight beneath that black gear they make you wear. And when it presses against the skin over your heart, you can think back to the Hunt that is naming each and every star that they pass after your name.” 

Mark just stood there, struck dumb as Gwyn gave him a sort of soft, sad smile that he had never seen before. He watched as the leader of the Wild Hunt took a step back before immediately stepping after him (just like always), a stricken look settling upon his face, “How… why?” He said, and there was a pleading note in his voice and Gwyn understood far too well. ‘Why now? Why change your mind?’

“Kieran,” He responded, for he didn’t have an exact answer to those questions, “He made it while listening to us last night.” Mark’s fingers tightened around the object until Gwyn was positive it had to be digging into his skin. “And there is something else.” He said before murmuring the soft Gaelic that Kieran had shown him. The light bathed the room in white, outshining the gold of the morning sun. It was dimmer than when Gwyn was with Kieran, and he wasn’t entirely sure if that was due to his accent, or the fact that Kieran was more well-versed in minor spell-craft. “In case you are ever found longing for the ways of the Hunt. A light to guide you back to us.” He gazed into Mark’s mismatched eyes before pressing one last kiss to the other’s lips. “Stay silent until the deal is made, my March, stay safe.” Mark broke away, nodding. His eyes were misty. Gwyn fought the urge to hold him again and never let go, “Go ready your bags. Kieran will be down shortly.”


End file.
